


Mirage (mini series)

by Requestedgems



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Deception, Good Loki (Marvel), Lies, Medium Burn, Mental games, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mind Games, Pre-Avengers (2012), Reader-Insert, SHIELD Agent Reader (Marvel), Secrets, Sweet, a little history between the reader and loki, at least we think, loki flirts a lot but whats new, loki laufeyson - Freeform, not explained in the beginning but maybe eventually, the works, trickster as always
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 11:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Requestedgems/pseuds/Requestedgems
Summary: “We’re friends, aren’t we?” His fingers pulled your chin upwards to look at him and you saw every piece of desire you tried so hard not to see. It melted away your tough exterior for a second, but it was enough for him to see an opportunity. “I think we are,” he muses. “And friends,” his thumb lazily brushes over your cheek, his slender fingers lightly cupping the back of your slightly warm neck, “Share things with each other.”You almost fell into him — you wanted to — but your brain took over.





	1. stuck in this deja-vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you will fall for me

This wasn’t the first time; you doubted it would be the last.

The window would pop as its normally unopened seal would separate from the glass, footsteps would echo through the apartment, slow and heavy, as if they had weights stitched into the soles of their shoes, and a hiss would come from slightly parted lips. 

You knew that hiss, a viper — not in danger — but in immense pain, a warning of injury, a plea for help. 

Searching for crimson and white, a box full of assorted patch up supplies would be in your slightly shaking hands. 

Most likely out of fear. 

Not for your own life, but for his, even though you were more than convinced his supply of them was far from nearing empty. Yours, on the other hand, only contained one you held onto firmly. 

Tonight was a break in the routine. 

His feet dragged a little too heavy and his gasps could be heard throughout your cosy apartment. Tonight was _bad_ and you had a sinking feeling blood would be sprinkled through your bedroom window and onto your white rug. 

There was no thinking being done on your part as you rushed from your kitchen to his side, which is strange. Your decisions were always well calculated, pondered, and planned. 

Thinking would have told you this could very well be a trap. Thinking might have given you the inclination of informing him how compromising this constantly looked. _Thinking_ would force him to stop coming. 

But he did. And you patched him up anyway. 

There really was nothing left in the tank for him. There was nothing graceful about the way he collapsed into you, or the way his feet twisted over the carpet. 

Not a hint of grace when his cut lip smeared blood onto your shirt as you braced him.

His poise was lost to his slurs, a by product of a swollen upper lip, and his ungentlemanly grasp around your waist, head pressed up against your chest. 

But it didn’t matter. 

You slid his arm around your neck and half dragged half slid him to your kitchen counter. 

He slumped, never staying upward, just rasping out your name as if overly drunk. You held a flashlight in one hand, opening one of his reddened eyes with the other, and propped him up with your shoulder. 

You’d tried to warn him. You’d tried to tell him with the slight shake of your head and fierce eyes of an oncoming mistake. 

But his pride, his overflowing, everlasting pride, refused to let his mind work, to let it think. And he needed a healthy portion of thinking, a portion he would refuse over and over again till either he was truly dead or all of his chances were spent. 

You didn’t see that happening in the foreseeable future. 

Applying a healing salve to his red, angry lip with freshly washed hands — your hand soap smells like pine — and wrapping his cut forehead in white bandages, you let him tilt forward while moving out of distance to his touch. 

No words were spoken on your part. You couldn’t risk it. 

Doing all of what you’d done now was as good as treason, why push it, why chance caution being stolen by the wind, why do something reckless when you can do the smart thing, the _practical_ thing? 

If only he would understand that; he could save himself a heaping of trouble and about two of his lives. 

“Well? Aren’t you going to question me? Ask me how I’ve gotten myself in this mess, how I can’t seem to tolerate the thought of thinking things through? Go on, I’ve got time.” You take a few steps back and tell yourself it’s the tightness of the space not the heat of his eyes and the truth in his statement guiding you to do so. 

You don’t bother to say a word. 

He grips the counter and hisses, this time in frustration as his knuckles go white. “Say something.” His eyes seem to press into your soul and a response is pulled to the surface. 

You open your mouth, think, then shut it. Still, no use in saying anything and that would dig a bigger hole than the one you’re already standing in. 

Now, now you see the darkness as he slides off the counter a little too easily for someone who is as injured as he should be. His eyes become hooded and jaded, shifting in anger and disappointment, as if you’d punctured his pride. 

He should know better. 

The wounded façade and the fierce intuitive play wouldn’t crack your stoic barrier. So, you assume, he believes an angry one will. 

He’ll see about that. 

The first warning is his hands, balled tightly, almost tightly enough to draw blood. The second, the wall becoming increasingly closer to your back. The third, his body, seeming to expand and close around you, trapping you, capturing you. 

You meet the wall the same moment his hands slam the brick beside you. 

Dumb move. He would have been better off standing away from you in a corner. This possessive game he’s playing will have no effect on you either. 

You’d be more afraid if his tone was coated in ice, like your father. 

“You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever encountered. You bandage my wounds, you wipe my blood from my face, hands, arms, legs, wherever, and yet,” one of his hands rises to fall into the side of your neck, pulling your face towards his. “And yet,” His forehead rests against yours, bumpy from the bandage. “You refuse to talk, to say _something_. You’ll show me kindness and give me nothing in return.” 

His arm snakes around your waist, pulling your bodies together. It’s becoming harder to think properly. Your heart beats at its own pace and ignores your practice steadiness. 

You need to remove yourself from the situation. You need to remove yourself from him. 

You start to pull away and he steadies you against him. “Ah,” he chuckles, the reverberations being felt in you from the nearness of him. “Finally, a reaction from my marble statue.” 

Your heart jumps at the mention of a possessive pronoun.

You move again, harder this time and shove against his chest. It’s enough to create some space, but not enough to peel his hands off of you. 

He doesn’t try to pull you close but keeps a steady hand on your waist and another on your shoulder. 

Their warmer than you expected, his hands, and you’re surprised by how relaxed your becoming, standing like this. It’s unnerving. You need to get away, you need to think, and you need to put some distance between the two of you. 

By the time you look up at him, he’s watching you with dark eyes. “Have you something to say to me?” 

You look away. 

Nothing ever holds as much power if you refuse to look at it. _The illusion falls to pieces with no audience as its witness. _

He finds your hand, twisting it lightly so that your palm faces him. “You neglected to display your injury. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You’d felt the sting when you washed your hands earlier but this wasn’t about you, this was about him. He wanted information, something only you knew. 

But he couldn’t have it. 

Your worth to him could only be measured in two ways: your knowledge and your caretaking skills. Since he’s had a need of both, through the window he came. 

He tugged you over to the band aids and began to apply one, pulling you closer than necessary, and softly letting his eye skim your features. On applying the band aid he’d smirked as he noticed your pointed avoidance of his gaze. 

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” His fingers pulled your chin upwards to look at him and you saw every piece of desire you tried so hard not to see. It melted away your tough exterior for a second, but it was enough for him to see an opportunity. “I think we are,” he muses. “And friends,” his thumb lazily brushes over your cheek, his slender fingers lightly cupping the back of your slightly warm neck, “Share things with each other.” 

You almost fell into him — you wanted to — but your brain took over. _Think_. And because you’d taken time to pause, his hold over you broke. 

You leaned into him, eyes directly angled at his lips and only stopped when you saw his eyes close. Then you stepped out of his reach and into a corner of the room. 

He stumbled forward of course, and you’d suppressed a laugh, he should have seen it coming. But he didn’t. That’s what emotion does to people — consistently clouded judgement. 

You refused to fall into obscurity. You needed to stay clear. 

“I’m not giving you anything.” You muttered, ignoring how your voice wavered in the beginning. “You’ve come here with ulterior motives. You know how this works, Loki.” 

A bitter laugh echoed through the open space in your living room and his ebony hair crawled out of his face as he righted himself. “You only know me as well as I allow you to know me.” 

You didn’t respond and he prowled, trying to ensnare you again. You darted to the door and placed your hand on the knob, watching him. 

You knew he couldn’t risk someone seeing him here and he knew you wouldn’t hesitate to go out that door and never look back. This was the only place he could reach you, consistently. You had a feeling the consistency meant a great deal to him. 

He stopped his advance, watching you intently, a chill coming over the room. “You wouldn’t.” He swallowed. You turned the doorknob slightly. “Ah-ah-ah. I’m not moving. See? I’ll stand right here, like a good boy.”

Your hand never moved backwards. 

“Tell me, did you know about the tranq shot? Was that what your warning was? I should have paid better attention.” His banter was light but his eyes were still dark, hungry, voids. The room felt too small, too cramped. You needed distance you didn’t have. “Come on, you can trust me. We’ve saved each other on multiple occasions despite what we chose as our line of work. You can’t expect me to believe that you don’t feel the same as I feel about you?” 

You turned the doorknob forward. 

“Wait! Blink once for yes, breathe for yes, open the door for no.” 

You pushed against the door and felt his arm ensnare you, his voice low and husky near the shell of your ear. “_Liar_. You’ll fall for me, _deeply_ and _madly_, and find yourself rendered as useless as I when in your presence.” 

You felt his lips at your cheek and he was gone, a phantom in the night.


	2. never believing things unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if only you weren’t trying to lie – if not to him – to yourself.

“We think he’s after the Tesseract.” A holographic projection hummed a shifting blue in front of you. “And we don’t know why.” 

It seemed pretty easy to you. The Tesseract could guarantee infinite access to space and anything it encapsulates. It would mean control over galaxies upon galaxies of life, minerals, and whatever else he demes useful. Noteworthy. 

It was power, a desire rooted in the very essence of humanity, passed from bloodline to bloodline in a never ending spiral. Of course some were better than others in resisting its pull but everyone had to face the hunger of power at some point. 

But Loki wasn’t human. He was a god. And gods always wanted fame, power, _adoration_. 

It made sense. 

“Agent?” Your eyes shifted back into focus to find fury’s dark eyes watching you intently. You felt bare, like he could see the events of last night written all over your eyes. Clearing your throat, you took a breath.

“If we consider the idea that he’s a god, and inferior to his brother, it could explain his greed for the Tesseract.” You splayed your hand on the table and propped yourself up on it. 

He scanned your features again and you tried as best as you could to keep from shaking. You’d passed many simulations that included lying, _heavily_, but nothing unnerved you quite as much as fury’s stare — even with only one eye. 

He crossed his arms and turned towards you. “I’m listening.” 

You brought his attention to the Tesseract. “We don’t really understand the full potential of this object — and, to be frank, I’m not sure we ever will — but it’s likely he does. That makes it valuable to him. He has information we don’t which makes _him_ valuable to _us_.” 

He frowned and he peered at you. “Your point?” 

You took a shaky breath, still surprised at what you were about to do. 

“How about we offer a trade?” 

Fury visibly bristled at the idea and took a step back. “That’s not an option.” His tone, clipped and firm, deterred you a bit, but you needed him to at least listen. 

“Look, no one said anything about actually giving him what he wants — it’d be like giving the nuclear arsenal to a power hungry terrorist — but a disguised trade. We give him something that mimics the Tesseract, it’s glow, feeling, sound, and in order to exchange ownership of it, he has to tell us what the Tesseract is.” 

You watched his eyes shift, speculatory satisfaction flickering across them. You’d seen that look before; it always signaled how impressed he was. 

“Say we go along with this plan of yours, what makes you think he’ll fall for it?” He peered over to you, expectant. 

“I don’t think he will.” A flash of shock appeared in his features. “_But_ if we give him something else to focus on, he’ll fold. All it takes is a distraction. Something to draw his attention away from the slight flaws in the fake Tesseract enough that he’ll cave. It’s like dreaming. You’ll never truly realize how strange the dream was until you’ve awoken.” You finish with what you hope is seen as reassurance. 

He seems pleased and his arms unfold. “Okay, officer. What will the distraction be?” 

You breathe before looking him in the eye. “Me.” 

…

It wasn’t your finest moment. But it could be doable. 

Loki’s promise still echoed in the recesses of your mind. The words raised initial anger but eventually traveled further than mere surface emotions and buried themselves in a place meant for very delicate feelings. 

It was a place you hid because who likes wearing their heart on their sleeve to let it get crushed over and over again?

But to win Loki, to win his open honesty, you’d have to make him believe that his words unlocked something in you. 

Which they _didn’t_. You were a thinker and a force of nature; you don’t have time for silly feelings and emotional attachments. 

Hurricanes never stopped turning because their favorite bar was in the path of their destruction. Brilliant scientists worked better alone and lived in blissful of solitude. 

You didn’t need someone in your life. 

You never did. 

…

You knew the click of those heels. You also knew the probability that you probably wouldn’t hear the end of this. 

“Well, well, very inspiring.” She popped her bubblegum and took a seat next to you at the bar. “Another hero, ready to save the day. Life on the line.”

You smiled into your glass of whiskey. “Good to see you too, Nat.” 

She ordered her usual — brandy, neat — before turning to you, smiling. “So, how’s my favorite fledgling spy doing? Kiss anyone yet? I hear it’s very effective.”

“Unfortunately, no.” You sighed as you set your glass down on the polished mahogany. “I think I’ll leave the part of the temptress up to you. You’re better at it anyway.” 

She watched you as she drank. “You do realize, if you take this mission, you’ll be doing the same thing I am.” She ordered another drink. “The only exception: you likely won’t have to kill him.”

You swallowed, slightly uncomfortable. Her eyes, always analyzing and observing, no doubt picked up in the slight shift in your demeanor. 

Natasha and you collaborated on a few projects here and there, nothing too exciting or noteworthy. But over the years you’d developed a friendship and, something you allowed yourself, _trust_. 

You chuckled, trying to cover a bit of your worry. “I’ll try not to aim for the chest, or head, for that matter.” 

“I get it.” Your eyes snapped to her only to find her brandy swirling in small circles in its glass. “I know that you don’t like the thought of killing someone and I know you have disguised emotions.” She smirked. “I know that this is going to be much harder for you because of it.” She took a sip of her liquor, giving you a minute to mull over what she said. 

“But I don’t have any feelings for him.” You protested, leaning over to her as she drank. 

She snorted. “Of course you do. When I even brought up the notion of killing him you immediately stiffened.” She gently put a hand on your shoulder. “But that’s _okay_. It’s alright to acknowledge your emotions, it gives you power over them. But you have to keep the end goal in mind.”

She kicked back the rest of her drink and a question you wanted to ask her for a while bubbled to your lips. 

“How do you do it? Work past the emotional thing?” 

She paused and sighed. “I stick to the plan. Even when it hurts.”

…

Overnighters sucked.

Especially when the only work you had left you feeling more tired than awake. It felt as if every word you read sucked more and more energy out of you. You were fairly certain there was a fine line of red rimming your eyes and the pouches underneath them were puffy and irritated.

But the longer it took you to return to your house the better. Loki would be prowling around your building again — as he always did every couple of days — and, without its inhabitant, he would begin to question, to worry.

He’d never seen you not available to him. You were always there, always available. The truth was you liked routine, you liked predictability, and because he was the least predictable being on the planet, that was confusing for you: and _insanely irritating_.

Natasha couldn’t have been right. You didn’t have feelings for him, far from it. It was annoyance and his childish disposition that bothered you when it concerned him. Feelings were never involved and would never be involved. 

Besides, if those feelings came along you wouldn’t know them anyway.

You let out a groan as your head fell to your desk and onto your crossed arms. This wasn’t going to be easy and you knew you couldn’t change the way you acted as soon as he showed up. You _hated_ admitting his intelligence but he was smart, _really_ smart. 

A slight change of attitude would tip him off to your intentions. 

Besides, this was only pretend. This thing you were going to do wasn’t real; this was all imaginary. How you would convince him off the authenticity, you had no idea.

But maybe you could start with his idea of falling for him, slowly and gradually, and make him believe his witty charm was actually attractive. 

Tricking him in the end though would be your best reward. Then he could finally leave and get away from you. And then your life could return to as normal as possible. 

No distractions. 

No tricks. 

No deception. 

And definitely no men breaking in at god knows when in the morning. 

…

Your clothes cling to your skin and rivets of cold, wet rain slid down the sides of your neck.

In all fairness, you had no clue it would rain. But you were always prepared, your father always made sure of that. 

You could see your black umbrella in the car underneath the seat as if you were staring right at it as you jogged down the street, arms crossed, hands digging into your biceps. 

But what better a damsel in distress than a freezing cold, slightly sick one. One that let her walls slide down for a moment, an instant, before shielding herself again. 

Didn’t he want to play the role of a noble knight, fierce protector? Wasn’t that his goal, to make you feel as though you needed him as much as he needed you? 

He would get his sampling. 

Slightly coughing and ringing wet, you slipped through the apartment doors. Just as you turned on the light, you heard the sound of a window seal popping and feet on the floor. 

“Can’t I have just one second? One! To myself before you come running into my…” you couldn’t recall a time pure worry stood openly on his face and your complaint died on your lips. 

His eyes, opened and slightly blue, conveyed fear and he seemed to walk to you in a slight daze. His fingertips felt like liquid fire as he gently stroked your face, moving your wet hair out of it. 

“Where have you been?” He mumbled, deeply. Your brain turned off for a second and you started to lean into his gentle touch. _Think_. You snapped out of it and turned away. 

Kicking your shoes off, you brushed past him and laid your things down on your couch. Just as you’d moved past the island of your kitchen, he was right in front of it, pressing you into it. 

His nose hovered near your forehead and you felt your body heat respond to the closeness of him. “Don’t run away. I’ve only just begun to see the full picture.” His wall appeared again, the wittiness a deflector for your lack of response. 

Loki made a good habit of using his charm and wit to cover up his concern. His open display of it at your door was new, but you couldn’t entertain it yet. 

He holds your face between his hands, rubbing his thumbs soothingly across your cheeks. They feel soft but tough and strong and you try to keep reminding yourself about the mission. 

“You have to take better care of yourself, you’ll catch a cold.” He takes a towel from the counter and starts to gently rub your hair. His eyes are still concerned but arrogance crept in and slowly you see his wall starting to harden, to take shape. 

You feel his fingers acutely, as if they’re actually on your scalp and no separated by a towel. It almost feels as if they _burn_. 

His finger covered towels press into your head and move around, collecting the beads of rainwater lying in your hair. You let him have his moment, relaxing slightly, then you slide the towel out of his hands and do it on your own. 

You can’t appear to let your guard down completely. This is only step one in a long process. 

He sighs and traps you with his arms, a smirk covering his face. “What took you so long? And why are you drenched? It’s a bit out of the ordinary to see you so unprepared.” 

Tilting over slightly, your fingers nimbly gather your hair into the towel and with a twist, your hair sits in a cotton plop on your head. It gives you something to do as you try to think of a response. He lets you walk away as you turn from him and move towards the kitchen sink. 

You could say you forgot it but he would know you were lying. You could say you were in a hurry to get home, but that would bring its own set of problems and concerns requiring sets of lies to cover — much too risky. 

If you could somehow make him believe it was an emotional issue, that might work. 

He wants to believe he can solve your enigma. 

“I needed the walk.” You turn to him and find electricity in his gaze. It’s unnerving; it makes it hard to focus. “I…wanted a walk in the rain.” 

He looks unconvinced but you hold your ground. If you’re going to lie, you’re going to do this right. “That seems to be out of the ordinary for you.” His footsteps remind you of the shackles on the ghost of Christmas past. They clang together, a metallic ringing of imminent doom. 

“Yeah, well…” you lean against the counter, palms down and try to keep your voice calm but make it waver. The more angst you can create, the better. “Things haven’t been easy lately. They’ve been…nevermind.” 

You move away and there is no surprise when you’re trapped against the counter again. “Ah-ah-ah, not so fast.” He smiles down at you, satisfied and triumphant. Then his eyes shift, worry coloring them again. “What’s happened?” 

You create a forced laugh as if you’re trying to make light out of a difficult situation. “It’s nothing, really. Nothing I can’t handle. I really don’t want to get into it right now.” You try to escape his restraints, but his arms don’t move and they now move up to your arms. 

His gaze deepens and he draws yours up to his as he slightly squeezes your forearms. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else, swear it.” 

You smile, half-fake, half-real. As much as you want to believe him, you know who he is. Just as he only lets you see what he wants you to see, you’ve been controlling his perception of you the whole time he’s been here. 

This is a game for two. 

This is a battle of the mind, not of the heart. 

You’re pretty sure his care isn’t totally sincere, that there’s some ulterior motive; you expect it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing here badgering you about an issue in Loki fashion if there wasn’t something else on his mind. 

“What are you really here for, Loki?” His smile drops a bit and you giggle, finally seeing victory. You know he’s been controlling what you see; now he knows too. 

His smile returns at your giggle but only with half the perfection it contained before. “To check on you.” 

You ignored the small flutter in your stomach and focused on the facts. The facts would protect you. The facts would never lie to you. _The facts_ would keep you safe. 

You smiled again, tilting it to appear slightly saddened, your eyes drooping. Removing your arm from his hand, you reach up to his face and touch it like it could break. “If only that were true.” You mold your voice to sound sad, hurt. 

His barrier is breaking, you can see it in his eyes. As he opens his mouth, you turn away and trod toward your bedroom. “But that’s what I’m here for. You didn’t come home till late and you’re drenched, you’re never this unprepared. _This isn’t like you_.” 

You don’t respond and just keep moving. _He hates_ it when you don’t respond. 

Soon enough — you even have to suppress a smile — he’s in front of you. “_Say something_. Please.” 

You have to stop because he blocks your path but you stare at his boots, looking despondent. 

He tilts your chin up. “Say something.” He whispers in an open plea. “Tell me how you’re feeling.” His eyes explore your face but you keep yours straight, attempting to look far away. 

When you do speak, it’s a real question, one playing around in your mind for a while. “Do you just come here for information?” Your eyes slide over to his and he watches you with sadness and pain. “Is that all I am to you?” 

“No,” he breathes out. He reaches out and pulls your foreheads together. “No, that’s not all that you are.” He sighs and tries to speak again “I-”

You sigh and move away from him. “No, that’s okay. You don’t have to force yourself. I only see what you want me to. I get it.” You move around to your bedroom and closed the door just as he called out your name. 

You’d only noticed now how cold your clothes are. You’d only just noticed the salt mixing in with rain droplets on your cheeks. You’d only just noticed how affected you’d become.

But this was the game.

_You would not lose._


	3. I don't ever want to fall in love again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki sees through your falsities, but he won’t lie. Not to you.

There’s a very fine line between losing it all and losing yourself.**  
**

That’s what your father would have said to you. If he was still around.

Lying would only take you so far. Loki would eventually notice the false smiles, the candied words, the empty promises. But if you gave too much of yourself, you would become lost in his eyes, his words, _him_. And that was something you couldn’t risk.

You wouldn’t lose yourself in this game. You were stronger than this. You’ve lied to your father, to strangers, to people you work with. You’ve gotten good at lying, good at letting a half-truth slip off your tongue and into the air. 

The words didn’t taste sour, didn’t set off a pang that would jolt through your chest and weave itself into your core. It felt like nothing, like absence. The radar that would tell you that lying was wrong was shattered to pieces as a child. There wasn’t always complete truth in your answers, but that’s the way it needs to be. 

To protect yourself.

To keep yourself safe.

You knew what the mission was, you knew why Fury was willing to assign you to this job. He’s well aware of your skill set and your ability to distinguish between the situations that call for truth and the ones that require twisted words, falsities, and subterfuge. 

The best part was when the truth and the lies became indistinguishable; that’s when you really trapped them. That’s when your father’s praise would be the most boastful and proud, like you’ve saved the world.

Maybe you couldn’t do it. Maybe at the end of this, all you would do was deter the god of tricks from destroying a whole planet. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to save the Earth. But if you could save yourself and the other people you cared about, save a dream that you wouldn’t quite admit to inspiring you, that’d be enough.

That would be enough for you.

….

He doesn’t stop by for a few more days than he usually does and it bothers you. But only _slightly_. If anything, it’s because the plan you worked out in your head might be thwarted because you played the game a little _too _well. 

But then again he was more gullible than you originally believed. And it made you think. Made you wonder if his previous words were really true. 

_You can’t expect me to believe that you don’t feel the same as I feel about you?_

Because in your experience, people generally told the truth even when attempting to shield it for two reasons: there are strong romantic feelings involved or there was a fear of losing something with lots of value to that person. Sometimes it was both, but only on rare occasions. 

Loki wasn’t someone that would vacillate between the truth and deceit that quickly. It was out of character, inherently wrong to you. 

He _lies_, like _all the time_. That’s what he’s good at, so why were his eyes so exposed and honest? Why were his defenses so obviously lowered? 

If he only allowed you to see what he wanted you to see, then why display something so raw? To pull you in? No, that can’t possibly be right. That would be too easy and something he knows you would have seen right through. 

But to play around? Charm you with his soulful eyes and pearly white smile. Think again. You’ve seen through that, explains why he didn’t try that angle the last time you saw him. 

Honest? Absolutely not. However, you were steadily running out of reasons to explain his behavior.

And the most irritating part of it all was the fact that you were even trying to decode this in the first place. 

Widow was wrong. You didn’t feel anything for him. Just like you didn’t feel anything for him now; you were simply trying to get an understanding of your opponent. 

….

He came, the window seal popped as he climbed in via the fire escape. _Doors do exist_, you wanted to call out, but you didn’t want to give him the impression that you enjoyed his frequent visits or that you’d been secretly waiting for that sound to echo through your apartment. 

The TV rambled on in front of you, but you paid no attention, listening for the boots to thump against your hardwood floors and waiting for his lanky figure to become visible to you. 

He didn’t hiss, didn’t announce himself, didn’t have any blood anywhere on his person. _He was here on business, then_. 

“You know, that was quite the show you put on last time.” 

He sat next to you on the couch, barely far enough from you so that you wouldn’t touch. His eyes bore into the side of your head but you don’t pay him any mind. You’re thinking now. He can’t mess up your focus. 

(The back of your neck heats up but he’s not close enough to feel that.)

You flip to the news and watch an interview with a man who claims he’s seen aliens. Internally, you laugh. _You haven’t see anything yet_. 

“I can tell you’re ignoring me.” He wrestles the remote out of your clenched hands, the only sign of your struggle, a sign you didn’t notice. “And that you know I’m right.”

You don’t give him anything to feed off of but feel a void in your stomach grow. If he could read you this easily, what else would he know about? But you weren’t had yet. He wouldn’t be insisting on your focus if he was convinced. 

You hadn’t stop thinking. Hadn’t stopped analyzing. That was safe. That would protect you. 

“And…” he placed a freezing hand on your cheek, like he was on a frozen planet instead of in your apartment. Your eyes snapped to his involuntarily. You mentally kicked yourself. “And that you weren’t really in pain. That you pretended to be hurt.”

_Damn_. 

You didn’t break yet though. How would he know, what’s his proof? You waited and he smiled at your non response. “Always such the statue of patience and brevity. I wish I could be as silent as you sometimes.” 

Your eyes left his face and you turned to the kitchen, losing interest on whatever preamble he was about to make. You weren’t going to fall into him by his charms and floral phrases. You need concrete proof and evidence, not bombast conversation that would get you nowhere. 

When you stood, he didn’t follow surprisingly. “I see I’ve lost your attention.” He laughs and you continue to prod over the fridge, opening it with a soft pop to start making dinner. “Never one for my charm, huh?”

“You’re deflecting.” You observe flatly, attempting to keep your voice cool and controlled. You succeed because the grin slightly falls off his face. “What do you want?” 

He breathes, treading over to your workstation and standing so close your shoulders touch and the invisible frost on his clothes press into your skin, making it pucker. 

Where had he been? 

“I want the truth.” You scoff and lean away from him, Loki angling towards you at the lack of support once there. The knife gleams in your hand as you cut up chicken, attempting to make an Asian staple. It’s good to keep your hands working, busy. It distracts from the way his eyes flutter over your face, watching and open. 

You let his words ring before answering. “Do you know who you are?” You’re making cubes now, angling the blade with precision and the finesse of a professionally trained chief. “You haven’t been completely honest with me the whole time.”

“But that’s because the truth will separate us.” He places his hands over yours, gently asking you to stop, to listen. You’re afraid if you listen too well, you’ll lose your footing. That’s the last thing you want. “And I don’t want that.”

And those eyes are there, warm and open, simmering in the truth in his statement. Why would he be afraid to lose you? You’re not special; you have next to no worth to him. 

But it cuts. It tears to the core because you always wanted to mean something to someone, to be important, but you knew that would never happen. 

You’re not willing to bet that he’s the right choice. 

“Liar.” You echo his words back to him and he bristles, letting your hands go as if they’re fire. Like they’ll mortally wound him. You likely called his bluff. 

It doesn’t rid the fact that his hand still froze your blood when he touched you. 

He looks angry now, eyes dark and consuming. Expression torn and upset. “Why do you think I would ever lie to you about that?” The previous conversation dropped immediately because of your statement. Good. But it raises more questions about his emotional honesty than you want to answer. 

“You lied about being seriously injured.” You swipe the chicken into the pan, the pieces sizzling against the oil waiting for it. “Lied about being worried about me.” It’s a trap if he answers it and even if he doesn’t. You’re more curious to see what he’ll say. See how far you’ve actually ensnared _him_. 

He almost growls. It’s so foreign it shocks you for a minute, causes you to pause. But only for a second before you keep on stirring. Waiting for him to continue. 

But he just stares, his anger simmering his blood, his fury vibrating the air and for a second you consider the fact that you might have overstepped. 

Then he speaks through barely restrained frustration. “First of all, dearest, I happen to heal faster than you mortals are able to. I was not pretending when I was bloody on your door.” He steps closer and you watch his boots, not his face. You tell yourself you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of your attention but there’s a lingering fear of what you’ll see if you look up. 

“Secondly.” He places a shaking hand against your cheek and draws your face around so he can see you, watch as he tells you his next words. “I am _consumed by you_. You and your wordless help, your lack of judgement, your willingness to aid me at my lowest. I am my truest self around you.” His honesty stabs you in the gut and your resolve is weakening. _Think_. _**Think**_. 

“Do _not_,” he cups your face with both hands and forces all of his pent up emotion into your eyes, all of his passion and yearning to make you understand the depths of his soul. His deepest truth. “Do _**not **_dismiss my feelings and tell me they aren’t real. You own every part of me. That — that is the truth.”

And you could kiss him right now because you know that he’s giving you nothing but honesty. No amount of training or practice can imitate love or deep affection. You know he’s not lying and it hurts that he knew you were the other day. 

But you were only lying partly, not wholly, not truly. 

The salt running down your cheeks was real. The lingering pain at the loss of your father was real. It was the anniversary of his death, the day you drown yourself in paperwork and your job so you don’t have to come home and face the fact that your only tie to and evidence of your once normal life disappeared with him. 

You were playing a game that wasn’t completely false and you were a little hurt that he only saw it that way. You don’t know why. You won’t _admit _why. 

And the way he looks at you right now could end it all, but you’re better than that. You’re also good at knowing an opportunity when you see one. 

“Okay,” you breathe letting a hand rest upon his forearm, drawing his hand away from your right cheek to hold, to warm. It’s a small gesture but one you see him melt under, seeing his words penetrate your mind, worm under your barrier. “I believe you.”

He closes his eyes in relief and brings your heads together, breathing you in, wanting you closer. 

You take in the moment, oddly at peace standing like this. Not feeling trapped. Not feeling cornered or forced. This is genuine. You relish in it. 

Then, you softly murmur. “I wasn’t lying, that day.” 

His eyes stay closed but he squeezes your hand, asking for more without saying it and you oblige. “It was the anniversary of my father’s passing.”

His eyes open then, scanning for falsehoods and lies. When he can’t find them, he looks shocked, like he can’t reconcile the fact that you’re being completely honest with him. Touché. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice is warm, sincerity running through his words and you accept it. It’s easier like this, no doubt, but this is only temporary. When tomorrow comes, this will all be a daydream. 

But for now, you try to enjoy it. “‘s okay. It’s been a few years now.” 

He smiles and you’re disoriented, moving away from his warming chill. The fire that’s usually present is gone from his hands but it’s like you’re standing next to a fireplace. You attempt to lean away but he traps you with an arm around your waist. “It’s just…you’ve never really shared more than what was absolutely necessary. I must be making progress.”

You don’t confirm or deny that statement. His grin widens even more. 

“But.” He traces a line across your forehead to catch a strand of hair in his hand, looping it around his finger to clear it from your face. “I _do _have a proposition.” His delicateness is disorienting and you slid out of his grasp to clear your mind, to take the time to fully process his words and scan his intentions. His arms linger in the air, searching for your form to hold again. He doesn’t say anything, but stays put, likely aware of what you’re doing.

This new territory will take some time to get used to, you can only stand so much at once. He seems to understand but his eyes are warry, trying not to give too much away, observing you and your reaction.

You don’t give him anything to be nervous about as you attend to the neglected chicken, fishing it out of the bubbling oil and onto a plate, before starting to slice your vegetables. You take a breath, wondering if this was all just fake. 

Of course it was partially on your end; you knew your mission came first and that your feelings couldn’t be genuine, it wasn’t fair to expect complete truthfulness from him if you were concealing ulterior motives. But just as his feelings weren’t completely false, your growing affection for him wasn’t a lie either.

And it scared you a bit. _He’s not the one_. 

You looked to him and he saw your countenance change, saw you weaving your barriers back together to protect yourself. “I promise it’s nothing completely horrifying.” He weakly laughed, hoping that you would soften again. You could only smirk, focusing on the green onion and carrots dropping into the pan.

“It’s a ball,” He drawled, stepping closer to you. You didn’t avoid him, you couldn’t give him a reason that his behavior was wrong. You’re slipping. But maybe that’s a good thing. “And I happen to have two tickets…” He leaned against the counter, staring into the side of your head like he loved to do when you wouldn’t look at him. You took a deep breath.

He leaned towards your face, grinning when a blush skittered across your cheeks. “So? Say something, tell me how you’re feeling.” His voice was warm, sweet like a child bringing you their favorite toy, trusting it in your care knowing that you could break it in half. 

“Well…” You poured off the food onto two plates and worked on the rice and the sauce. “What’s the cause for celebration?”

“Just a small technological advance, trivial in my opinion, but worthwhile to some connections I have.”

“Oh, you have people that _don’t _hate you?”

“Aren’t you looped into the same lot of the very people you speak of?”

“Says who?” You combined the darkly colored substances, sugar, and a bit of salt into a sauce pan, melding them into each other.

He scoffed and dumped the measured rice into the pot as the water boiled. “For being such the example of silence, you sure have a fiery and unrestrictedly honest opinion.”

“And you wonder why I’m so quiet.” You peered at his work over your shoulder, frowning at his skilled use of spoon and knowledge of putting the lid over the steaming water and rice, cutting the flame. He knows more than you give him credit for. “Come.” He snaps his attention to you, gaze determined, like he can will you to go. “Join me for the evening, although I can’t promise it will be interesting the entire time.”

You laugh and his eyes soften. “Please, as if you’d want me there.”

He hardens, angry again. “Why— you know what, Lady statue,” He places his hands on his hips and peers down at you with superiority. His arrogance causes a smile to break out on your face. Like he could beat you in an argument. “Riddle me this. Why do you think I’ve endeavored to pick up two tickets?”

He’s right, but not completely. “Simple.” You pour the sauce over the vegetables and the chicken, waiting for the rice to finish. “You wished me to join you, but if this somehow went south, you could either invite someone else or complain about how your date stood you up, garnering sympathy from all the women there.”

He feigns being shot. “You wound me.” Stepping over to you, he takes your free hands in his, tugging you a little closer. “That you would think that desperate of me. I wouldn’t complain; I would pretend that you were coming, hoping for your arrival and looking more despondent that you haven’t. That would be a sure winner.”

You rolled your eyes and went over to the rice. Scooping a couple heapings on both plates, you set them down on the island by the bar stools. “Well well, such the strategist.” You deadpan and walk around to your seat. Loki follows sitting in front of the second plate.

“Is this for me?”

“You’re here. Might as well eat. No poison tonight. Scouts honor.” Loki looks like that means much, but you ignore him, digging into your rice, the small grains bursting against your mouth. He takes that as assurance and sits. 

Once he gets good into eating his meal, the two of you eating in a comfortable silence, you reach out and stroke your fingers through his midnight hair. It’s gentle but he pauses, watching you, startled into freezing.

You work down to his cheek, holding it, smiling at how surprised he became. “Seven o’clock. I’ll be ready.”

He fumbles to put his fork down. “How did you know what time it was?” He mumbles through a mouth full of rice.

“Oh, _please_.” You skewer a piece of chicken with your fork, holding it away from your mouth to finish your sentence. “I have connections too. I was already invited.”

He almost spits out his food and you hide a smile while you chew. “You knew the whole time?”

“It was funny to watch you squirm.” You speak between bites, full on grinning now.

He slides his eyes to yours like a predator, seeking revenge. “You’ll be sorry about that.”

“Will I?” You frown, pretending to be innocent. “I thought you wanted the first dance.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I hear some of the men there are quite charming.” You sip your water, waiting for him to go off.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight.” He says it with a seriousness that gives you pause, and you look at him, drinking him in, admiring his features and his unabashed words. You grin and place a tender hand on his cheek, feeling his skin warm under your fingers. 

“Okay.” You breathe and he closes his eyes and leans into your hand, covering it with his own.

“_Okay_.” He repeats, comfortable and happy.

“Okay.” You whisper. It’s more to you than to him, like you trusting him in this. Trust is a very funny thing and very fickle. It’s easily broken but hard to establish and build. It can all come crumbling apart in seconds, doubt it’s largest destructor. But maybe taking a chance can lead to more reward than ruin. Maybe more stability than chaos.

And that’s something you need, an anchor for all of the emotions you’re beginning to drown under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d written part 3 a while ago, but I hated how fast it progressed their relationship so I completely started over to make this and it is light years better than the trash I originally wrote. hope you thoroughly enjoyed their banter and firting.


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